


Safehouse

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (aka Brock), And Then There's This Asshole, Brock Rumlow is a human dumpster fire, Bucky's just trying to live his life ok?, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Sex, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, No Romance, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rough Sex, Smut, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10617192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A fugitive Rumlow runs into an old friend - or enemy, or whatever they are to each other now.“I mean, I know it would be hate-sex. But probably really, really good hate-sex.”





	1. Chapter 1

This running for his life shit is getting old fast, but that doesn’t mean he gets to stop doing it. There’s probably always been a price on his head - and HYDRA and SHIELD both could have sold him down the river if they’d wanted to - but now people are getting bold enough to try and claim it. All sorts of crazy fuckers are coming out of the woodwork, and though he’s mostly healed, he’s still not 100%. A shame, that, because they’re catching up.

He keeps on going, somewhere, with enough good sense not to stop and check the GPS. Doorways and alleyways flash by, and he hates running this far, looking this scared when all it actually does is piss him off. They should know when to give up, but they never do. And now he’ll be beat up in an alley in Brooklyn - which, to be honest, he could do without - and it’ll be a picnic compared to what they’ll do to him when they drag him back to whoever financed this little operation.

He takes a turn, then another, and he’s lost, but hopefully so are they. They’re about to appear around the corner behind him, he senses it - and then he’s snatched into a doorway by an unknown hand, and after a beat they thunder past and he realises he’s evaded them.

And then he looks down at the hand.

And _now_ he’s scared.

\--

“Thanks, buddy.” He keeps his tone light, unassuming. _I’m just a stranger you saved from certain death, just a poor down-on-his-luck guy running from thugs, we’ve never met before_ …. It’s like a Jedi mind trick, although he always fancied himself on the Dark Side.

“No problem, _Agent_.”

Shit.

The metal grip can’t be shaken off; he knows this as sure as he’s (somehow still) breathing. A good shock or two to the ribs or throat can make the Winter Soldier let go - most of the time - but he doesn’t have the equipment and this isn’t, technically, the Winter Soldier.

There were whispers of a book, a key to all the code-words the Soviets plugged into their pet murderer in the 40s, but it was apparently lost in the fall of the USSR. The American handling team never saw it. It would be really handy right about now.

“You, ah….”

“I remember you,” Barnes says, with a hint of a smile that Rumlow has never seen before and doesn’t like one bit. “Don’t worry, pal. I remember all of it.”

\--

They stare at each other for a second, then shrink back into the shadows as one when another rough-looking group go past. The man-hunt is bigger than Rumlow thought, and it distracts him momentarily from his impending beatdown.

“You need somewhere to hide?”

“Would be nice, yeah.” He smirks, before it dawns on him that Barnes is _offering_. “Sure.”

“Come on.”

He doesn’t really want the choice, doesn’t think he could bear to hesitate, so it’s a relief when he’s dragged onwards. They take a back route, scaling three fences and a wall, and Rumlow is out of breath when they arrive at the top of a staircase in an anonymous apartment building - as ever, unable to keep up with the superhumans that life keeps throwing his way. Barnes approaches the door as if it might bite and silently slides a key into the lock. If there’s anyone on the other side, they have about three seconds left to live.

There’s nobody on the other side. The apartment shows all the hallmarks of a deliberate choice and a defensive setup. Rumlow picks out the elements which would bring an invasion attempt to a grinding halt; there are many. Jack used to call it ‘tactical Feng Shui’. He doesn’t tell Barnes that, although this version probably has a sense of humour. He sits on the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table. All the furniture is solid, and that’s good.

Barnes is solid too, bigger without being taller; thicker across his torso, waist and thighs. HYDRA never fed him enough, most likely; come to think of it, Rumlow never saw them feed him at all. He used to be a ghost - now he has a physical presence that’s almost overwhelming. As he removes his jacket and circles back around the room, it’s tempting to reach out and touch him. It would be a mistake to touch him.

“Any particular reason I’m still alive?” He asks, and Barnes pauses momentarily in the act of unpacking a shopping bag - he was holding it when they met. He’d been out buying food. It’s so _normal_ that it looks strange.

“I’m not out to kill you. Were they?”

Rumlow shrugs. “They’d have done it eventually. Probably. I don’t know what they want.”

“Bounty hunters?”

“Maybe.” He licks his lips; they’ve gone dry. “You could hand me over, you know. Make some cash.”

“That’s not how I work any more. You -.”

“I know that, yeah. But maybe you’ve changed, huh? Maybe one day I run into you and you’re back in the big time again. Doing what you were made for.”

“Maybe one day you run into me and I lose my patience,” comes the quiet retort. Rumlow laughs.

“Is that a death threat? Cause it’ll take a lot more than that to scare me.”

“I’ll think of something,” Barnes says softly, and Rumlow grins like it doesn’t bother him as his neck prickles and his gut turns over.

\--

Barnes can cook, which is and isn’t a surprise. Rumlow leans in the doorway of the tiny kitchen in the tiny apartment and watches him. The last traces of sunset give a glow of warmth to his metal arm. He has the radio on quietly and his hair tied back (it’s shorter than before, though not by much) and uses knives with the same fluid precision as ever. They eat in virtual silence, neither wanting to start the conversation. It’s not long before the clearing-up is done and the black night sky is blocked neatly by blinds.

“They’ll still be looking for you?” It’s barely a question. This is a man who knows how it is when you’re on the run.

“They will be. I can’t see them giving up tonight.” Rumlow sighs and drains his mug of coffee. It’s not strong enough to keep him up until dawn, and he wishes it was. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No, you can have the bed. You need to rest.”

“Hey, it’s your bed. I’m just visiting.”

“You’re in bad shape. And you’re older than me.”

“That’s -.” But he’s absolutely right. Rumlow is pushing forty (from the wrong direction) and the Winter Soldier never aged more than a couple of years from the bright-eyed young man taken in the Alps. Biologically speaking, at least. His eyes are very old indeed, like Cap in one of his sentimental moods. “You trying to insult me? I can survive.”

His back and neck will punish him tomorrow if he sleeps solidly on the couch - which he will; the exhaustion is starting to weigh in and it’s only a matter of time - but he’ll be closer to the door.

“No, I insist.” It’s almost friendly, which is frightening in itself.

“How big’s your bed?”

He finds out in due course, because they both end up in it. The debate over the couch grinds into a stalemate, and they lie back to back and ignore each other. Rumlow promises himself he won’t fall asleep first. So, naturally, he does.


	2. Chapter 2

The metal arm is lying across him when he wakes, heavy enough to leave marks on his skin. He eases it to one side, without Barnes offering more than a sleepy grunt of protest.

“Ok, big guy.” Rumlow gets up, standing unsteadily. He’s still tired but he’s slept enough, he  _ has  _ to have slept enough. He wanders to the bathroom, pisses loudly, flushes loudly, wanders to the kitchen.

There’s no coffee machine, but there’s a kettle, and he puts it on. He retrieves his pants and shirt from the floor of the lounge - carelessly left there to see if it annoyed Barnes - and dresses fast and quiet while the kettle hisses. His sidearm is in his jacket, which is by the door. He can get it on his way out.

He turns the corner.

“Fuck,” he says, because the guy might be big but Christ he can  _ move _ .

Barnes crosses his mismatched arms. Rumlow doesn’t want a fight - wouldn’t  _ survive _ a fight - so he just stands there, with the Winter Soldier between him and the exit, and says “Fuck” again.

“Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I was. I know it’s kinda rude, should’ve left a note or somethin’, but….” He smiles at that, at how absurd the whole thing is. “So, if you’d like to just....”

Nothing happens.

“C’mon. I don’t want any trouble. I promise.” A cold sweat starts to break out on Rumlow’s spine, with that heavy gaze on him, and his heart pounds. His bravado has never been a front before now, and so it’s doubly unsettling. “C’mon.” He casts around for a weapon, but there’s nothing that Barnes couldn’t counter. He’d need a pistol and some body armour to stand at least a chance. “We’re not in the same business any more, are we?”

“Well, I’m not. Looks like you’re still in the business of being an asshole.”

It’s the first true antagonism that Barnes has shown, and it’s not even that grave an insult. Neither is it an inaccurate statement.

“A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”

“Doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.”

“Just let me out, I  _ swear  _ you’ll never see me again.” It’s perilously close to begging, and that’s an annoyance. Barnes is in a t-shirt and sweatpants and could take him apart without even trying. But he’s damned if he’ll  _ beg _ . And he can’t resist pushing back. “Talking of assholes - Cap managed to get the stick out of his yet? Seemed pretty cut up about it when we -.”

Barnes takes two quick steps towards him and he’s got nowhere to go. The metal hand closes on his shirt. Wrong thing to say.

“I’m not planning to hurt you,” Barnes says, gentle and icy and close, and if Rumlow thought he was scared before, it’s nothing to the terror that now rears its head. “I don’t want to kill you. I know you’re more useful alive. But you say one more word about Steve,” of course it’s  _ Steve _ , “and I’ll rip your spine out and beat you to death with it. Understand?”

“Yeah, sure.” Rumlow chews his lip briefly, wishing he could make his voice steadier. “Whatever you say, big guy.”

“Right. So you sit down,” the cold fury is gone, and he sounds almost amicable as he pushes Rumlow backwards onto the couch, “and I’m gonna get us breakfast, and call some of the guys.”

“Some of the guys?”

“Oh, you know. Steve. Sam. Natasha. I’m sure they’ll want to see you.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says. His head is spinning, and even when Barnes moves away, he doesn’t stand up and bolt for the door. He has no strength left. “Yeah, I guess they will.”

\--

Eventually, he has to stand up, because it gets on his nerves if he can’t move around. And nobody said anything about not taking a look at the place. His first stop is the window. It opens freely and smoothly, and Barnes doesn’t comment, because he doesn’t need to. Rumlow looks down at a sheer multi-storey drop only a super-soldier could survive, and decides against actual suicide as a way out.

He takes a long shower instead, figuring that using up all the hot water counts as enough of a dick move. He’s still towelling off, wandering through the lounge in his underwear, when he notices his jacket is over the back of the couch. It comes as no surprise that all the weapons in it are missing, as are those on his belt and in his boot.

“Great.” He throws the jacket down, as Barnes comes in with food. “What did you think I was gonna do?”

“Shoot me in the face and escape.”

“Like you couldn’t stop me.”

“Easier than disarming you when you’re wearing them.”

Rumlow huffs and sits in an armchair, dragging a plate towards himself and piling in. He’s hungry, despite everything. “I might as well be naked.”

“If you want.”

“Even it out, huh? How many times have I seen you? Bet you don’t remember.”

“I do.”

“Fair play, you’ve put on a bit of weight since then.” Licking syrup off his thumb, he rakes his eyes over the former assassin’s body, but his scrutiny seems to matter as much as it used to - that is, not at all.

“I’m just a guy trying to live his life.” The phrase sounds oddly empty.

“You ever get stuck on the subway?”

“I’m not that huge. Just looks that way because you’re small.”

“Now that,” he finishes his mouthful and puts a hand on his chest, “that  _ hurts _ . Right here.”

“Good.”

“You said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“I said I wasn’t planning on it. There’s nothing to stop me.”

“Except that good faith and righteousness you’ve got going on, yeah,  I get it.” He looks up and into Barnes’s eyes, and it strikes him that he would’ve said exactly that to Rogers, and meant it. But this isn’t Rogers. This is a man who isn’t afraid of his strength, or bound by some sort of moral credo, or generally uptight. He’ll do what he has to do, because he has to do it. Which could be very, very bad news.

“Ok, so there’s nothing,” Rumlow admits, and shoves more food in his face. “That’s why I like you.”

The look Barnes gives him suggests that it isn’t mutual.

“No really, I do. We should fuck.”

He throws the last in just to see if it gets a reaction, and is highly disappointed. 

“What?”

“I know it would be hate-sex. But probably really,  _really_ good hate-sex.”

That gets a raised eyebrow at least.

“So? C’mon, it’ll kill some time before they get here.”

It happens very fast, but Rumlow is sure that he’s actually pulled up and _over_ the back of the couch as soon as he stands up to make a move. Barnes will always be quicker. His back hits the wall by the bedroom and knocks the breath out of him and it’s more of a bite than a kiss but it’s hot and forceful and oh so good.

Getting inside is a mutual struggle and someone’s foot kicks the door shut and someone’s hand locks it even though that’s probably a bad idea. They tumble down onto the bed and he pulls off Barnes’s shirt with a flourish, liking very much what he sees underneath. The pants vanish somewhere along the line - probably not actual magic, though he wouldn’t swear to it - and Rumlow ends up above, groping wherever he can, greedy for skin. Touching swathes of muscle and winding his hands into hair - and his wrist is grabbed firmly, the bones grinding.

“Don’t pull my hair.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“You were.”

“Ok, maybe a little.”

“Don’t,” Barnes growls next to his ear, which does absolutely nothing to alleviate the ache in his shorts. If anything, it’s worse. They get flipped around somehow, the underwear comes off and any illusions Rumlow might have had of topping disappear just like that. He’s pinned briefly, and then released as if Barnes really doesn’t want to hurt him - and maybe that’s true. Still hot, though. He’s a big man, he can handle it, even as a cold hand (cold with lube, not metal, thank fuck for that) dips below his tailbone and he squirms impatiently.

“C’mon, I’m not fragile. I’m not Ca-” the metal hand shoves his face into the pillow before he can say exactly what they both already know. Sure, Steve isn’t fragile, but the longer you take in preparing him, the more desperate and fallen-apart he gets, and it’s beautiful to watch. Just thinking about it makes Rumlow grind against the covers and arch his spine, pushing back on the implacable fingers in him, already living a fantasy while he re-lives another.

“You ready?”

He supplies a string of curses to indicate that he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. A slow, filthy glide which has him groaning, clenching his fists. It’s not the way he saw it going, but he’s not complaining one bit.

He’s just got into the rhythm - not fast, but not leisurely by any means - when he’s hauled upright by the torso and drops down that little bit further; the sudden fullness has him jerking out a moan and saying “Woah, hey -.”

One hand strokes his hip, the other circling his chest, supporting him on his knees. The metal fingers are nowhere near his throat, which is a relief - Steve likes it, but Steve is a crazy fucker sometimes (in all senses). “You ok…?”

He breathes, the stars he’s seeing clearing away. Somewhere, it occurs to him that that’s the biggest difference. Forget the added bulk and the clothes and the apartment. This version isn’t being given orders on pain of death. If he _did_ start giving orders, what would happen? He doesn't want to know.  


“Nah, I’m good. Just - slow, go slow. Ah - yeah, that’s it….” the steadier pace is perfect, and it’s lighting fires up and down his spine. “Right there…. Fuck.”

“I’m trying.” A little breathless, perhaps. They’re both so into it that it’s almost funny.

“You’re more than trying.” He lets himself laugh, able to shift and grind a little. “C’mon. Show me what you’re made of.”

“You know that,” almost inaudible against his neck, so close to his thundering pulse, and he’s not afraid. His challenge is met and he’s fairly sure the neighbours can hear some or all of this. He doesn’t believe in staying quiet, especially not with 200-something pounds of super-soldier working him over, and especially not when it’s hands-down the best fuck he’s had in what seems like forever....

\--  


“Told you,” he says, as a damp washcloth drags over his stomach. He might as well have slept on the couch for all the good it’ll do his aches and pains, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. “I said it would be great.”

“I guess you were right,” Barnes says neutrally, but he’s careful in his movements, almost loving. “I’m still not letting you go.”

“You’d let an ass like this escape out the front door?” Rumlow chuckles; he knows he says the stupidest things in place of pillow talk, and amuses himself every time. “Didn’t think so. You up for round 2?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a bit of time - like you said, I’m old. Ancient.”

“Then you should get some rest.”

The metal of the hand disguises the metal of the cuffs and Rumlow doesn’t notice until it’s too late. He tugs at the bedframe, frantic but futile. Barnes just watches him struggle.

“Round 2 might be a little different.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Brock really up for round 2? Will he even *survive* round 2? And does Bucky have more in his closet than handcuffs (and that one poster of Steve)?


	3. Chapter 3

And then the fucker gets up and leaves.

Only to the bathroom (and presumably to put some clothes on), but it still seems a little rude. Brock wastes absolutely no time in fighting for all he’s worth, trying to find a weak spot in his bonds, twisting and thrashing on the bed. Something cracks in his back and it feels much better. He stills, panting. The shower is running - some hot water left after all; Barnes has probably had enough cold showers to last a lifetime - and it gives him precious minutes to case the joint. The head of the bed is in a shallow alcove, arched at the top. A bedside table, some kind of dark wood, with shelves and a lamp which looks like it’s been hurled at a wall at least once. Most things seem to be second-hand, or at least aging. Except the bed frame, which is rock-solid. If he stretches out his foot, he might be able to reach some of the furniture. Good to know. But his time’s up.

“Trust you,” he says loudly, “to have these in your fuckin’ closet.” The cuffs are real, not some kink-related prop. Getting out of them is going to hurt. “What else you got in there? Cat o’nine tails?”

“Nah,” Barnes comes back in, clothed as expected. “I kinda gave up on that a while ago.”

“I’m sure you did.” He grins, because it’s not so bad after all. “So, come on. What’re you going to do to me?”

“I don’t know.” Barnes comes to sit on the bed, hands folded in his lap. Rumlow kicks at him playfully.

“C’mon. My ass is at your mercy. I’m sure you can be creative.”

The metal hand catches his foot. “I’m sure I can. Whether you’d appreciate it or not….”

Something in his eyes, right then, makes Rumlow sure that Barnes is about to snap his ankle and _that’s not fair_ is nearly the first thing out of his mouth. Just like that, it’s gone - a trick of the light - and Barnes just lets his leg drop.

“I’ll tell you what I _will_ do,” he says, as if he’s just thought of it. “I’ve got some guests coming over. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk so much.”

“Son of a bitch,” is the last thing Rumlow says out loud.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, Buck,” and it’s so easy to picture him taking his best friend’s shoulder in hand and gazing at him like a Golden Retriever faced with a beloved tennis ball. “It’s good, you know - that you feel you can have people round, even if you don’t feel like going out. That’s progress.”

“Did Sam tell you to say that, Stevie?” there’s wickedness in his voice; that and fondness. He’s coming round to Wilson;  it seems so from the conversation. And the fact that the guy was invited at all.

“Yeah,” Rogers admits, probably doing his  _ aw shucks, I’ve been found out _ shuffle, “but it’s true, isn’t it?”

“It is. C’mere, dumbass.” And they kiss - or at least one can assume that that’s what’s happening, because there’s an ‘ooh!’ from Wilson and a ‘come on, Steve!’ from Romanov, and she only heckles him when he’s doing something distinctly un-badass.

Although making out with the Winter Soldier is, to be truthful, pretty badass. Rumlow wishes he’d done it more often. He might still get a chance, but not in this state. His mouth is dry and his throat burns dully. It’s not the worst, but it’s not a walk in the park. He makes his feelings known with a full-on glare as soon as his host returns.

“Aw, come on,” Barnes tells him, still riding the high of Rogers’ presence. It gives him a glow, rather than a scowl. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before.”

He snatches away the cloth, and Rumlow coughs a little more than is necessary.

“Romanov knows,” he says hoarsely. “I could tell.”

“She knows I’m up to something.” Barnes doesn’t seem surprised. “But she probably doesn’t know what.” He tilts his head. “Why, you think she’ll come and save you?”

“She’s always hated me - I have no idea why.”

“Sure, you’re a real charmer.”

“Don’t you know it.” He winks. “Oh, and while you’re standing - some water? Would be good.”

Barnes fetches it and lets him drink, which is nice, but lets him know that he might be in it for the long haul. You don’t give sustenance to people you’re only going to keep tied up for ten minutes.

“Would you have let him stay? If I wasn’t here?”

“If that’s what we wanted. Sure.”

“Would you have fucked him?”

“Probably.” He perches on the edge of the mattress, and puts a hand on Rumlow’s chest. His voice is gentle, and his touch is warm, and it’s worrying. “You sound like you’re jealous.”

“What, you think I haven’t tapped that?” He laughs. “Oh, man. We worked together, you know. The things we used to do after hours….”

“I know, he told me. It’s not like I mind; he was lonely, right?”

“Lonely, and fucking insatiable.”

Barnes has a tiny smirk, almost cute. Rogers probably thinks it’s adorable, but Rogers probably also prefers that to the half-snarl he wears when he’s about to rip something to shreds. “Did he tire you out while I was gone?”

“Me? Fuck no.” He flexes against the cuffs. “You think one weak-ass superhero is enough for  _ this _ ?”

“I’m not sure.” Barnes moves, swinging a leg over to bracket his hips. “I promised you round 2, didn’t I?”

“You did.” He shifts, subtly, to get a little more contact.This is getting interesting.

“How about you tell me more about you and Steve?”

“How about you sit that ass down properly,” because he’s still kneeling halfway up, and it’s a downright shame, “and  _ then _ I’ll tell you.”

Barnes concedes this one, after a moment’s thought, and slips a hand down between them for good measure.

“It’s like you’re shy or something. After what we just did.” He shakes his head. “Steve’s not shy, is he? Any time, anywhere. Hell, we did it in the fucking  _ elevator _ . I mean, to be fair he only gave me head. But then again there’s only so many floors.”

“Did he make a crack about ‘going down’?”

“Are you kidding? Of course he did. I laughed my ass off. And then shoved my dick down his throat. You know he can do that, right?”

“The serum enhances everything,” Barnes says cryptically.

“Fuck, it’s good. You know when he looks up at you? I could think about those eyelashes all fuckin’ day. Sometimes I do.” He clears his throat, slightly distracted by the image as well as some very clever fingers, and becomes aware of the body heat between them, through their clothing - Barnes’s clothing, at least.

“That’s understandable. Did you ever time it?”

“Time wh- oh, how long he can hold his breath? Well, we’ve got the stats from combat training, but, uh….”

“Cause we did.” Barnes leans over, hair brushing the sides of his face. “One night when we were bored. We got a stopwatch and we tried it.”

“Uh-huh,” Rumlow says, his head spinning slightly. He doesn’t know whether he’s unusually susceptible, or whether the serum gives them some animal magnetism. Either way, he’s loving it. “How long?”

“About five minutes. Maybe five and a half. I gotta admit, by the end of it I wasn’t really paying attention to the watch….”

“Did you try… Christ…” he arches up into the touch, close to losing it already - it would be embarrassing, if he cared. “Did you try more than one position?”

“Oh, we did. We tried everything. That shit was  _ scientific _ .”

“You had a lot of spare time?”

“Not as much as we’d like.” He sounds a little wistful, but doesn’t stop his work down below.

“Well, you’ve got time now.” Rumlow doesn’t want to play relationship counsellor. It seems inappropriate, especially since he’s about two seconds away from ruining the guy’s jeans.

“Oh, we have. So I gotta warn you, like I did before,” his fingers curl, “you say a bad word about him, you try to use him against me…” the pleasure edges into pain, “and you won’t walk out of this alive.”

“Ok,” Rumlow says, suddenly a lot more alert. He doesn’t want to die here, and he  _ really _ doesn’t want to die of testicular trauma. “I got you, big guy. Now let go of my balls.”

He doesn’t.

“...Please?”

“Promise me. That you won’t be unfair to Steve.”

“Yeah, ok, fine!” He’s beginning to sweat lightly all the way down his spine.

“Nuh-uh; I wanna hear you say it.” Barnes is staring him down and the pain is intense.

“I… I won’t be unfair to Steve. Ok?  _ Fuck _ , that hurts….”

“Say you’ll do what I tell you do to.”

“What? That wasn’t part of the de-owwwfuck… ok, uh, I’ll do what you tell me to do. Within reason!” His eyes are watering, and through the blur he sees that Barnes isn’t smiling.

“Now say that Hydra’s a bunch of fucking morons.”

“Hydra’s a bunch of fucking morons who couldn’t find their asses with two hands and a flashlight now LET ME G-” the pressure is released “oh thank fuck.”

He breathes heavily, letting his vision clear and his heartbeat slow, relaxing. If he couldn’t withstand a bit of light torture, he wouldn’t have got anywhere in life.

“Look - you don’t have to do that to get me to talk shit about Hydra. Fuck Hydra, ok?”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” Barnes says fondly, sitting back. “I remember you being really, really keen on that stuff.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind….”

“Come on. You ‘changed your mind’ the minute I got hold of your nuts. Smart move; I like it.” He settles his weight, almost a deliberate grind. “Tell ‘em whatever they want to hear, so they won’t hurt you too much.”

“Keep doing that,” Rumlow says, “and I will tell you  _ anything _ .”

“Ok, sure. I want you to guess for me - how many times did I say  _ yes sir, of course sir, right away sir _ to your scumbag face, and mean it?”

“Uhh,” it’s getting a little difficult to think again, the lingering pain fading away, “at least, I don’t know… at least twice? I mean, there were some times when I swear you were -.”

“Not. Once.”

“Wh-?” he starts to say, but Barnes is gone with a slam of the bedroom door.


	5. Chapter 5

Rumlow curses and rolls his hips against thin air. Gone, like a shadow, like a ghost. The most feared assassin of the century - and by god he’s still got it, killing the mood with brutal efficiency.

“You’re gonna leave me here?” Rumlow yells at the door, although it’s quite clear. Being cuffed to the bed is acceptable, but being left with blue balls? He’s pretty sure it’s against the Geneva Convention. “Come back and finish what you started! You fucking coward!”

There’s no reply. He huffs and stops his struggles, fuming silently. If - and it’s tough, but possible - he can think past his throbbing dick for a few seconds, he can see the advantage. Time to find some weaknesses in the setup.

Or, he could try and flip over and rub off against the mattress.

There’s enough chain in the cuffs for it to be possible. The bed frame is made of thick bars; if he gets his head under his arm, he can turn onto his side, and then….

His eyes fall on the bedside table. A water bottle, the slightly battered lamp, a stack of dog-eared notebooks with brightly coloured sticky tabs in various shapes, and a pencil case with a pen poking out, one of the ballpoint ones that you click incessantly to put people off during important meetings. Trust Barnes to be a stationery nerd. Brock can see a few options here, as long as he plans ahead and stays calm - and, preferably, gets off somehow. The only thing he hates more than being trapped is being denied what he needs. (Some people, Steve among them, think it’s cute to tease. He disagrees strongly: it just shows that they’re afraid to bend over and give it up. And the process of educating them is usually highly enjoyable. Right now, for instance, means right fucking now - not in half an hour when Rogers has finished peeling himself out of his skin-tight gear. For a superhero, the guy could be pretty fucking dense sometimes.)

Lying on his stomach means he can give his shoulders a much-needed break, and admire the duvet a little more. It’s nice, actually; a soft thick material in varying shades of dark blue, patterned with scalloped lines and smelling faintly of detergent. Shame to ruin it, but it feels unbelievably good to have some friction. Not as good as the fight-roughened hand before, but better than having his balls in a vice.

He wouldn’t put it past Barnes to try and make him beg for it, and he hates that too. Being the one begging, that is. The other way around is perfectly fine. He’s done it to them both, for different reasons, and those memories make him sigh and grind down harder - the voices of demi-gods, pleading with him to.  _ Please, let me - please, I can’t - please, do it, if you don’t I’m gonna - I’ll die if you don’t stop -  _ until his climax hits him and he’s not even sure which voice carries him through it.

“Guess you’re gonna have some laundry to do, big guy,” he mutters, and laughs until there’s a tear in his eye.

The chain rattles as he pulls it taut to try and wipe his face and it sobers him quickly. He thumps his head down on the pillow. It was fine while it lasted, but now he’s just damp, sticky, and still here, and he’s pretty sure that Barnes had a washing machine in the kitchen. Like some kind of European.

“Fuck you,” he says loudly, hoping that it can be heard from the other room. Just to be sure, he listens for a response, but there’s nothing. More than that; it’s the sort of silence which indicates absence, rather than indifference. He lifts his head properly, takes a slow soft breath in, a slow soft breath out… and listens. The ambient sounds come through, traffic and heating and a quiet patter of rain. As well as leaving the room, Barnes must have left the apartment. Fuck knows why. But that means only one thing: it’s time to make his escape.


	6. Chapter 6

The bed-frame can’t be broken, that much is clear. He reaches behind it, feeling up the bars, and discovers welds rather than bolts. There must be some joins somewhere, otherwise it couldn’t have got into the confines of the room, but they’re not easily accessible and he doesn’t have the time to hunt around too much. He props himself up on his elbows and yanks on the cuffs as hard as possible, nearly hurting his shoulder in the process, and not knowing what else he expected - of course they don’t budge. There’s only one way out that he can see. It won’t be pleasant (although pleasantry isn’t one of his strong points anyway), and it needs to be done quickly.

Thankfully, the lube has been left in a position where he can get at it. It might be enough on its own. He considers that as he coats his left wrist, giving a few experimental twists and turns, until it’s clear that they’re too tight to simply slip away.

He breathes in deep, bites down on the pillow, and cracks his left thumb out of place.

A strangled sound of pain escapes him although he’s already clamping down on the hand, pulling it, squeezing it through the unforgiving ring of steel.

It pops free, finally. He gasps and curses and rolls up into a ball to massage the joint back to normality. It always hurts like a bitch, so he saves it for truly dire situations. Like this one - which will only get direr for him if he hangs around.

Rolling off the bed (and wiping a tear from his eye), he sneaks into the living room, cradling his hand and confirming what he thought before - Barnes is definitely out. He pulls on his shirt, finds the rest of his clothes, and resigns himself to going weaponless - no time to find them. All that matters is going, fast.

He sneaks up to the front door, undoes the locks with the bare minimum of patience it takes to stay quiet, and slips out. A glance round the corridor - good sightlines here, of course - comes up empty, so he crosses to the stairwell. The fire escape would be easier, but this isn’t the 40s anymore: fire regulations are a thing and so the door is alarmed. He can’t quite remember how high the building is, but the entrance isn’t guarded. Getting out should be the easy part. Then he’ll be on the run, again. Not ideal. Better than the alternative.

In all probability, Barnes won’t bother to chase him - and if he’s wrong about that, he might as well have stayed rolling around in bed, since he’ll be well and truly fucked. No, the most logical thing for Barnes to do would be to tell a few good-guy friends and start an official manhunt, just to really make his life suck, then sit back and watch the authorities track him down. Assuming the guy who once pursued a target for two days across a storm-lashed wilderness, after being shot, can put his own personal quest for revenge on the back-burner long enough to have someone else bring his prey to him. In all honesty, it doesn’t seem like the Fist of Hydra’s style.

Taking the stairs as swiftly as he can without falling, he arrives on what must be the second floor - getting close to the exit. There’s a sound from somewhere ahead, and he ducks into hiding, then reconsiders. If it’s Barnes, he’s already been found, and if it isn’t, they won’t know him from Adam. Their steps are light and hurried, unlike the Winter Soldier’s heavy tread. He can come out of the shadows and stroll along as if he owns the place. Nobody’s going to question him.

He straightens up and walks out past the person (a tall man in a brown jacket with a deep hood) and then, for some strange reason, he's weightless.


	7. Chapter 7

It seems he forgot, in his infinite wisdom, that a guy might walk differently after breaking free of Hydra’s heavy chains.

“Let go of me! You fucking - I’ll make a scene in the hallway. I swear, everyone in this place is gonna -.”

Barnes just smacks him across the face and it shuts him up out of pure surprise. They’re still moving, despite Rumlow’s best efforts. It’s not in the least bit comfortable. He can’t recommend doing it this way; backwards, stumbling halfway through each flight with an implacable hand clamped on his throat, banging his knees and elbows on the stairs he wanted to be going down instead of up.

Barnes shoves him through the door of the apartment and slams it shut behind them. Recognising a bad thing when it’s wearing a murderous glare and coming at him fast, Rumlow tries to crawl away and at least stand up, but he’s caught in a blink.

“I forgot you can do that thing with your thumb.”

“Well, you forgot how to behave towards a guest.” Defiance might get him nowhere, and his life might be in danger, but it does nothing to stop the blood migrating downwards. He chalks it up to fear, and hopes Barnes doesn’t notice.

“Uh-huh.” Barnes pins him to the wall and grabs his right hand by the cuff dangling from his wrist. “So, this time I should use both pairs?”

“You’ve got more than one? Jesus Christ.”

“Well, how many is normal?”

“None! No pairs of handcuffs in your fucking nightstand is normal! Well, maybe one.” He considers. “I had four. But only two of them were real.”

“Real?”

“If you’re using them for kinky shit, they should have a quick-release.” Although any of that would probably involve Rogers, who could break out of these like they were dry spaghetti - which is why the ultra-thick magnetic versions were developed. And tested. On Barnes.

“I’m not using them for that.”

“Yeah, I figured - unless I got _incredibly_ lucky here….”

“I don’t know - maybe you did.”

He pushes his hood back and lets their mouths brush, and Rumlow is a fool if he’s going to ignore that. His arms are trapped but his face isn’t, meaning he can have a go at what Rogers must have been doing earlier. Perhaps he was wrong - perhaps Barnes doesn’t want to keep him around for revenge or for justice. Just for fun. There’s always been something between them; the memories must be testament to that. Sure, the guy was always forced to beg for it, but some submissions come easier than others, and most of the time they weren’t even rough with him - a lenience he truly deserved, for knowing when to resist and when to give in. It’s an important lesson, one that Hydra taught early and one that isn’t easily forgotten.

His mouth stings and he tastes iron. He jerks back and bangs his head on the wall. Barnes is smirking, lips bearing a streak of red.

“You bastard,” he says thickly. It feels like he’s lost a chunk of his tongue - though that’s probably not the case. “You bit me. The fucking _nerve._ ”

“Well, pay attention next time. Remember that I’m probably not gonna touch you unless I wanna hurt you.”

That’s a very familiar phrase. Rumlow hisses at him, and spits blood into his face.

“See, _now_ you don’t like it….”

“You bite me, I’ll bite you back, big guy.” He bares his teeth, but so does Barnes. Rumlow considers himself a master of the art of intimidation - and thus recognises the fact that the Winter Soldier’s snarl is terrifying. His canines are very sharp, up close. Rumlow wants the mask back on: forget anonymity, this is what it was for. To stop the crazy fucker sinking his teeth into them.

“How about Gibson? You remember him?”

“I do,” Rumlow says noncommittally, bringing a little mockery to the words. “How about him?”

“You remember what happened to him?”

As a matter of fact, Rumlow does. There was a lot - a _lot_ \- of blood, and it was the kind of thing they only joked about a good few months after the event. At the time, most of them were too busy going pale, breaking out in empathetic tears, or (in one case) peeing themselves.

“Well,” he says, and swallows hard, “he was stupid. Right? None of the rest of us ever tried that shit with you.”

“Not after that, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well you can’t blame us for wanting to-.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, it sure as hell wasn’t comfortable.” He pauses, staring. “You know how it feels? Having that thing on you?”

“I, uh… no, I guess I don’t.” He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t come out. “...don’t say you’ve got one of those, too.”

Barnes holds his gaze for far too long. Rumlow starts to squirm. He notices that his eyes are a deep, featureless grey like a windswept parking lot - which is a stupid thing to notice, but at least it’s a distraction, and makes him feel better about the fact that they’re similarly devoid of warmth and decent light. Perhaps there’s a lonely street lamp there, but it might well be on its way out. Certainly, it’s flickering. And not at all safe to be around when you’re alone. He feels he might be taking this train of thought too far. His mouth is suddenly dry, which won’t help at all when that thing gets shoved onto his f-.

“No, I don’t.”

He sighs in relief, and manages to laugh this time. “Had me going there for a second. You think I’m scared of you, huh? You think I’m gonna beg for mercy?”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Barnes says honestly. “But I haven’t really given you a reason yet. Have I? So what would I have to do?”

“Since you ask…” he leans his head forward, making his intention clear. “Just don’t bite me again, ok?”

“No promises.” The metal hand is gripping his wrists hard enough to make his fingers go numb. He tastes his own blood - he’s become used to that over the years - and his mouth still hurts, but the little nips delivered to his lips and jaw aren’t exactly painful.

“Who taught you to kiss like that? Not Rogers, right?” no answer; not that he was expecting or wanting one. “Round 3, huh,” talking in spaces between deep kisses, “cause I had to finish round 2 myself. And, uh, you might wanna wash your sheets.”

“No, it’s ok,” Barnes murmurs against his mouth, “I’ll just chain you up in a pool of your own  -.”

“Oh, now that’s low.”

“That’s how you used to do it, right? Don’t worry, I remember. Let Maintenance deal with your toys, once you’ve had your fun.”

“Isn’t that the way everyone does it?” Cheeky, but worth the reaction - a thigh drives between his and crushes him unmercifully. Not entirely a bad thing. “But it worked, right?”

“Worked? Depends on what you wanted to achieve.”

“And you wanna know what that is?” It’s clear he does, but he won’t say it; his face is set.  “So I got a deal for you, big guy. If you wanna know what it was all for - why we did all that shit…. Get me off again, and I’ll tell you.”

“No deal,” Barnes says, almost a growl.

“Ah, c’mon. You remember a lot, but you don’t remember everything. Do you?”

A pause, and a ‘fuck you’ burning in those dangerous eyes.

“Do you?” He seats himself properly on what feels like a column of pure muscle, and it’s  _ good _ . “It’s not much to ask, right? I’ll tell you. All I want is a little something in return.”

Barnes does actually shiver at that - it’s tightly controlled, no more than a flutter up his spine, but it’s there. He doesn’t look happy about it.

“Haven’t you had enough for today?” Which is something he never would have dared to say, before, even if he was thinking it.

“You’re the one who started making out with me.”

“Only to shut you up.”

“Not to convince me to stay?”

“Like you’d want to stay.”

“I dunno.” He shrugs awkwardly, unable to shift his arms. “The hospitality’s a lot better than I was expecting. A  _ lot _ better.”

“Like if I let you go right now, you wouldn’t run right out the door.”

“Why, are you going to let me go?”

“No. In fact - that reminds me.” He pulls away from the wall and Rumlow is being dragged again, not quite prepared for it (and not quite comfortable in his shorts), into the bedroom. Barnes tosses him onto the bed, latches the cuffs casually onto the top of the frame, and sits on his legs.

Annoyed, Rumlow smacks him across the back of the head as he takes off both their shoes. “Hey. Fuck you - cut that out. You’re worried about  _ that _ ? Jesus fucking Christ, you really are trying to be a normal human being, aren’t you?”

Scraping his hair back with the flesh hand, Barnes climbs onto him properly, and they’re back to where they started. “How d’you think I’m doing?”

“You’re clearly  _ trying _ ,” Rumlow spits, trying to find the words that might hurt him - if that’s even still possible. “But it’s never gonna happen. Admit it, you’re a fuckin’ animal. You need a zookeeper more than you need a boyfriend. I don’t think Rogers knows just how fucked-up you are. You told him yet?”

“I told you not to bring Steve into this. Remember?” Barnes slaps him lightly, then catches the hand that’s still trying to inconvenience him. “Or do I have to break something, just to get it through your thick fucking skull?”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” It’s a game that they’ll keep playing, though, and Rumlow can’t resist a final dig. “I mean, I’m sure he’d hang around, if you’re worried about that. He wouldn’t leave you. Mr Star Spangled Panties has got a real thing for hopeless cases….”

Barnes snaps his wrist.


	8. Chapter 8

The sound is what he notices before the pain - and then his vision blazes white round the edges and he makes a long, groaning sound that isn’t quite a scream, yanking taut the cuffs and bruising the skin on the wrist that isn’t on fire.

“The fuck,” he pants, a little dazed, gritting his teeth and pulling himself back to the world because he can’t float around in agony while the bastard is still in the room. “The  _ fuck _ ?”

“I did warn you.”

“Yeah, you d- I guess you did,  _ fuck. _ Ok, no more Steve. I promise!” He tries to curl his fingers and moans.

“Don’t worry,” Barnes says tonelessly. “It’s a clean break.”

“I’m sure it fucking is.” He writhes, keeping his arm carefully still though it takes all his effort to do it. “Holy  _ fuck _ .”

“And now, I’ll just leave you tied up and let you deal with it. I mean, it probably won’t heal right. But we can just re-break it and try again….”

“Alright! I get. The fucking. Point.”

And Barnes is suddenly smirking at him. “Nah, I’m just kidding. You got what was coming to you.” He stands up and crosses to the bathroom, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll make sure it’s ok.”

“Oh, how  _ kind _ of you.” But Rumlow doesn’t really have a choice - and he wants it to heal more than he wants to piss off his host - so he lets Barnes splint and bind it with surprising dexterity.

“Feel better?”

“Fuck you.” It does, though, now it’s immobilised, and things like trembling or breathing don’t disturb it. He’s still in pain, and distracted, and barely notices that something is being held out to him between the metal fingers until he’s already swallowed it and taken a gulp of water. The realisation isn’t pleasant at all. “Wait, what - what was that? What did you just -?”

“Just a painkiller.” Barnes shows him the box, then leaves it on the bedside table. “You’re not allergic to any of these, right?”

“You could have checked  _ before _ you gave it to me, smartass. No. So you’re lucky.” It’s extra-strength, so it might do the job - but only just.

“I don’t have any morphine,” as if Barnes has read his mind. “I’m trying to quit, you know.”

“Looks like you’re doing well.”

“I’m doing a lot better, now you’re not there to hurt me in the first place.” He takes a drink himself. “And now I can decide what goes in.” He screws the cap back on the bottle, as quick and sure as he crushed the bones. “It used to be good, though, I won’t lie about that. When I was off my head, on the stuff you used to use to keep me in the fight.”

“The stuff  _ Hydra _ used to use,” Rumlow says cautiously, cradling his injured arm to his chest.

“The way I see it, it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

“Sure, whatever. And you wanna know  _ why…?” _

Barnes looks at him, unimpressed. “I already told you. No deal.”

“Bullshit.” He tries to look seductive, with one hand chained to the bedframe and the other wrapped in bandages, and has to concede defeat. “You want to, you know you do.”

“I don’t.”

“I think you do,” Rumlow insists, and that’s what finally drives him out.

At least this time, he doesn’t slam the door.

The time is valuable, to breathe and collect himself. His wrist hurts like hell. There’s still a damp patch against his spine. He won’t heal as fast as Barnes can. The evening sun peeps out from behind a few fluffy clouds, warm through the window. It’ll be a lot harder to escape. There are so many more notebooks, stacked up on the bedside table, on the bookshelf, on the dresser. He notices these things, cataloguing them carefully one by one, until the painkiller starts to kick in and the world gets a little more pleasant. He’s still fucked, but at least he’s fucked and on drugs.

Closing his eyes, he feels like he might be able to fall asleep - and might need it, if he wants to make an escape attempt tonight. The smell of cooking filters through from the kitchen. He can hear the radio, with a voice, two voices. They overlap until he figures out that Barnes is actually singing. It’s rough, amateurish, but not bad.

“Rolling in the deep, soldier?” Rumlow mutters to himself, and laughs. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Maybe it’s the meds, but he can’t stop himself from grinning. He’s still distinctly amused when Barnes returns.

“What’s so funny?”

Rumlow doesn’t open his eyes, or take his head off the pillow. “I know you’re tryin’ hard, but normal people don’t… they don’t dance around in their fuckin’ kitchen when they just chained a guy up their bedroom and broke his fucking bones.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“And you’re an authority on what’s normal, right.” Which is a fair point. “Anyway, if you’re done criticising - I’m gonna let you up so you can eat.”

Rumlow cracks an eye open. “Really?”

“Yeah - and, if you try anything, I’ll break something else. But I’ll let you pick. Now does  _ that _ sound like a deal?”

“Fine.” He’s hungry, and if Barnes is offering to solve that, he’ll take what he can get. “You don’t wanna feed me yourself?”

“Stop being such a creep.”

“I wasn’t,” although he was outright leering when he said it. “Just thought it’d be easier….”

Barnes doesn’t give him a response, just leans over to set him free, and that’s enough.

“Ok, I’m gonna admit,” he says as he’s manhandled into the living room. “We probably didn’t feed you enough - you guys are hungry all the fucking time. But when we did….”

“I know.” Barnes says flatly. “I remember.”

The sudden coldness in his tone is scarier than it was before. It’s as if he’s deciding how to react to the reminder - as if he’s keeping something under control. Rumlow decides not to push it, and settles for poking at his food instead, getting the dangling cuff into a position where it doesn’t clank against the plate.

“Hey,” he says when they’re done (and only then, because sometimes he knows when to shut up), “you know you said I could choose what you broke, if I acted up…?”

“I swear to god,” Barnes says, stabbing a fork into the drying rack, “if you say your dick, I will -.”

“For your  _ information _ , I was  _ absolutely  _ gonna say my dick.”

“You sure you want that broken?” He sits down heavily, close enough to touch. “I can arrange it.” His metal fingers flex, and Rumlow is mostly sure that it’s deliberate.

“How about you hold on,” he says, “and I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

Barnes sighs. “How about you go have a shower,” he replies finally, “and I’ll try and forget you even said that.”


	9. Chapter 9

It’s a lot more difficult with his left wrist bound up, but he feels better for bathing - and to leave him alone, for any amount of time, is a sign of Barnes’s continuing goodwill. He’d rather be here than locked in a warehouse somewhere with a sack over his head. Barnes won’t torture him to death for fun and dump him in a canal. At least, it’s unlikely.

There’s not much in the bathroom cabinets that’s sharp; not much that could do damage, even in the hands of a professional. And with only a towel, nowhere to hide it. He could stay here until it’s suspicious and then go for a surprise attack; simply nail Barnes with something hard or heavy as soon as the door opens. He could saunter out and try to make it to the kitchen, grab a knife, but it would be dangerous in the extreme. Having one hand will slow him down a lot - ironically, he’d be slower than the man who’s missing a whole arm.

“You ok in there?” And Barnes gets the jump on him while he’s still stuck thinking about it.

“Better than ever.” He turns around, nothing to hide, and winks.

“Painkillers still working?”

“Mostly. And yeah, I’d love some help scrubbing myself down.” He’s anticipating the frown. “What, that’s not what you’re offering? Then why’d you even come in here?”

“To make sure you’re not up to something,” Barnes says. “You know that.”

“Well, I’m not. So, you gonna take me back to bed?”

“No, I was gonna let you wander naked round my apartment. Maybe you’d find a weapon, make it even more interesting.” The look he gives is so sharp that Rumlow shivers despite the steamy air. It’s not like Barnes is a mind-reader. But they might know each other better than they think.

“Like you’d let me do that.” He laughs it off, holds up his hand with the loose cuff dangling. “Ok, c’mon. I’m ready. Take me.”

Barnes guides him more than drags him, since he knows the way already. The sheets have been changed, warm and fresh against his skin. He gets a little while to himself, and another pill.

“Didn’t fancy the couch?” He says, as the blinds are drawn and a body settles in beside him.

“Gotta keep an eye on you,” Barnes tells him, a blatant lie. “Right?”

“Right.” He rolls over a little, positions himself with his injured hand shielded. “So you won’t mind if I…?” Draping his leg over Barnes is a slight strain on his posture - the arm attached to the frame has to support his head - but worth it.

“Still? You’re still trying it on?”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything….” He shuffles an inch closer. “If anything,  _ you’re _ the one coming on to me.”

“Uh-huh. That sounds pretty fucking familiar.” They’re kiss-close, but Barnes isn’t buying it.

“Don’t worry, we knew you didn’t mean it. It was just funny.”

“I’m not really seeing that, but ok.”

“Ah, you might laugh about it one day….” He grins and kisses the tip of Barnes’s nose, a mockery of romance. There’s a grunt of exasperation, but nothing else forthcoming.

“Just go to sleep, asshole.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You want me to knock you out?”

“Not really.” He goes heavy on the insinuation, and then abandons it altogether. “Unless you do it with your dick.”

Barnes sighs heavily. “Is that really what you want?”

“I just think it’ll help me sleep, that’s all….”

And in a second he’s flipped over and his wrist gives a jolt of pain. Barnes is above him, on top of him, blanketing his body; he struggles, but only to get more comfortable. He hears the click of a cap and hisses at the chill.

“You could warm up the lube,” he mutters into his forearms.

“That’s what you’re gonna bitch about?” Hot breath on his ear; Barnes twists two fingers in him and makes him squirm. “Have it your way.”

“Hah, looks like I’m actually having it  _ your _ way.”

“Damn right,” and the pressure is intense, but he can’t say he wasn’t prepared. It’s just a lot to take in. Barnes isn’t letting up. Metal digits dig into his hip as he’s pulled back - impaled - so hard it drives the air from his lungs. Right hand gripping the pillow, left curled uselessly in its splint. The pace is punishing. He barely draws breath between thrusts, gasps out a stuttered “Fuck” every so often because that’s all he can manage. It’s great. Barnes growls and bites his shoulder and shoves deeper - somehow - and it’s enough to make his brain short-circuit with a high desperate whine, back arching of its own accord.

“You like that?” Barnes kisses the bite mark softly.

“No, I hate it,” Rumlow says through gritted teeth, trying his best not to make a noise like that again, “I’m just  _ acting  _ like you’re hitting the exact fucking…” and what he was going to say dissolves in a moan that he’s  _ definitely _ not proud of - but it’s ok because firstly, Barnes is the only one to hear it, and secondly, he carries on nailing that spot like it’s a high-profile target. The pain from his wrist is a distant memory. He practically blacks out. By the time he gathers his senses back together again, Barnes is done too, panting against his neck.

“It’s a hell of a painkiller,” he rasps out.

Barnes strokes his stomach and sides lazily. “Yeah, I wonder why they don’t prescribe it more often.  _ Of course, Mrs Smith, take three dicks and call me in the morning _ .” It makes him laugh, which makes Rumlow laugh, and this is really a  _ lot _ better than being shut in a warehouse. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”


End file.
